


cut and dry

by remylebabe



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: (Geralt has to relearn how to handle physical intimacy), (sort of), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bisexual Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon Ships It, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Family Feels, Fluff and Angst, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Bad at Communicating, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Bad at Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon's Parent, Good Friend Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Good Parent Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hair Washing, Haircuts, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion Has a Past, Jaskier | Dandelion is a Noble, M/M, Musician Jaskier | Dandelion, Past Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Relationship Issues, Smut (eventually), Soft Jaskier | Dandelion, Switch Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Touch-Starved Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg Ships It, jaskier is a cosmetologist
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:08:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22905256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/remylebabe/pseuds/remylebabe
Summary: Geralt looked a little shocked. “Are you telling me I smell?”--jaskier owns a salon, ciri wants her dad to get a damn haircut, and geralt is...geralt.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 41
Kudos: 189





	1. ( sage and lilac and roses )

Another day, another permeable cloud of hay and dust and hair alerting Ciri her father was home, more telling than the sound of the door opening from downstairs or his simple statement of “home”, the same unceremonious routine as usual.

Except every day, the cloud felt bigger and bigger. In fact, Ciri couldn’t remember the last time her father had made an effort past making sure he didn’t smell _totally_ of horses when coming to her recitals. And by all the gods, _his hair._ Ciri knew he could have such gorgeous hair, but now it was so long and stringy and dirty and…the thought of it made her want to shudder.

She also couldn’t remember the last time her father had a reason to make an effort, but that was another issue entirely. Ciri was a very astute fourteen year old, thank you very much, and she could totally tell her dad overworked himself in order to avoid having emotions more complex than hanging Ciri’s tests on the fridge when she did well.

Not that he was a bad dad, or that she suffered from a lack of love – absolutely not. She’d been grateful for Geralt since he pulled her out of that foster home when she was eight, and he’d always made her feel loved and welcome, sometimes just in that funny way that only he could. 

What was bad, however, was that _cloud._ Ciri made her way down to the table, knowing the routine would lead Geralt (and their dinner) to the table soon enough, planning out her words as she went, flipping through options of salons on her phone, scribbling out words and phrases and ideas until she finally came to a reasonable conclusion – just in time for her father to come to the table. Again, the same unceremonious routine as usual. 

Save for this.

Idly pushing her peas around the plate (reheated leftovers; again, same old, same old), she took in a deep breath, looking up at Geralt. “Hey dad?”

He paused his eating and looked up at her, fixing her with the gaze that said ‘If you’re asking for something new, save it for after dinner.’ Geralt was particular about that, and somewhat rightfully so – he spent all day at the stables; coming home and not wanting to use brain cells until after he ate felt reasonable. 

“No, no, it’s not that.” Ciri swallowed, trying to find the best way to word this. “It’s about your…” she kind of waved around her face vaguely, trying to express her point without actually saying it.

Geralt dropped his fork, perplexed. “My face?”

“Yes! No. Sort of.” Ciri laughed, nervously. She was normally able to be far more straightforward with her dad, but this felt…weird. “It’s just that you don’t really take care of yourself much, and…” Okay, she had to be straightforward, or Geralt wasn’t going to get it. “At least get a haircut, dad.”

Geralt looked a little shocked. “Are you telling me I _smell_?”

Ciri shrugged, sheepishly. “Yes, and no. It’s not really the smell, dad, as much as it is the hay and twigs and dirt in your hair. I think if that you got that cleaned up, by someone who really knows how to do it, it would help, a bunch.” 

Geralt let out a thoughtful noise, the one that Ciri knew meant “I have never received this information and need to process it, but am too proud to ask for time to do so.” So Ciri sat and waited, until Geralt finally, _finally,_ shifted in his chair.

That meant a response was coming.

“I…suppose.” 

Ciri’s eyes lit up, genuinely both thrilled and surprised at her father’s response. “I know you haven’t done this before, at least in the time I’ve known you, so I took some time to do research for you.”

An amused smile passed Geralt’s lips, his emotional wall breaking itself back down to its (slightly) less guarded state after a long day at work. “How long have you been thinking about this, Ciri?”

“This specific idea? Like…half an hour. But, y’know, research is easy. There’s only so many salons in this town.” There were actually far more than Ciri expected, because they lived in a fairly large area, but she didn’t want Geralt to know she’d done that much research, and done it so quickly. It would make it obvious she knew how to work the internet, and god forbid Geralt started asking her about _that._ She was pretty sure her dad felt no need to be able to use the internet, but, well…he was a technological boomer, to put it kindly, and she didn’t want to even risk putting the idea in his head that she could explain something to him. 

“But, uh, anyway.” She scooted a paper across the table to Geralt, the one where she’d written her final decision. “This one’s fairly close, and it’s got really good reviews, and it seems like it’s a one-person-at-a-time appointment thing, so you wouldn’t have to worry about being  
around other people. Except for the person cutting your hair.”

Geralt looked down at the paper, reading the contents. The Gilded Songbird, followed by an address and phone number. He raised his eyebrow at the name, but said nothing regarding it. “Fine. I’ll try it.”

Ciri looked like she was going to jump out of her chair. “This is great! And I’m old enough I can either be left home alone, or you could go during the school day, and…” She grinned, devilishly. “Maybe you’ll even find _someone_ there.”

“Ciri!” Geralt growled, but there was no malice behind the name, just a half-amused, half-exasperated sentiment. His daughter had been trying to get him to go on a date for ages. She thought he was lonely, or something. “I’ll call. Don’t push it.”

\---

After dinner, Geralt sat at the table, looking down at the paper Ciri had given him long after she’d retreated back to her room to do homework (allegedly). He knew if he didn’t call now, he’d never call – he simply couldn’t in the mornings, he was up by three a.m., and if he put it off until tomorrow night, he’d find an excuse. Over and over again, he’d find them.

He’d call. For Ciri. 

Swallowing his pride, Geralt picked up the phone, dialing the number.  
“Thank you for calling The Gilded Songbird, this is Jaskier!” A sing-song voice greeted Geralt on the other side of the line, its tone simultaneously incredibly gorgeous and incredibly grating. “How may I help you?”

“I…er. I’d like to make an appointment.” The words felt strange coming out of Geralt’s mouth. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d made a doctor’s appointment, much less anything _unnecessary._

The voice sounded on the other side. “Ah, yes! For what service, precisely? We have your standard cuts as well as all the usual varieties on a standard cut, like, you know, shampoo, blow-drying, the works – we also have color treatments, and—” 

Geralt cut the speaker off, suspecting they would’ve continued to prattle on and say more and more things he didn’t understand if he hadn’t stopped them. “Haircut. Just a haircut.”

“Mmm. Gotcha.” The voice on the other side of the phone sounded thoughtful, as if it was musing on the proclamation – but Geralt was probably just imagining that, because, as much as he hated to say it, he wasn’t _comfortable_ with this. 

And then, the voice spoke once more. “In that case, I’ve got…a 6:00 appointment tomorrow night available? If that works? You’d be the last appointment before close; usually appointments run between half an hour to an hour-ish…depends on your hair.” 

That was so _soon._ Geralt was – okay, no, he wasn’t expecting time to prepare, or anything, but suddenly, dedicating himself to this felt very real and he didn’t like how fucking vulnerable the idea of someone cutting his hair made him feel. He could hang up the phone now, chop off an inch or two off with scissors – but no. Ciri had asked him to do this, and he’d said yes. Well, he’d said I suppose, but that was really yes. He knew it, Ciri knew it.

“That’s fine.” He grumbled into the phone, reminding himself this was just a _fucking haircut._

“Wonderful! And can I get your name, so when you come in tomorrow, I’ll be able to match your gorgeous voice to a name _and_ a face?” Geralt could practically hear the speaker winking on the other side of the phone. Oh, good. A cosmetologist who hit on their customers. That’s what he needed.

With a sigh, he responded. “Geralt.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then, Geralt! Just come right up to the front desk when you get here – I’m the only one here, so I should be either just finishing up with a client or right there to help you at six!”

Before the voice could continue speaking, Geralt mumbled a “Yep. Tomorrow,” and hung up the phone, staring at the piece of paper once more.

So, this was happening, then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unlike every other fic i've written i p r o m i s e i am not abandoning this. my muse is rabid. i just want to get this first chapter up while i keep writing
> 
> enjoy some fun ciri & geralt nonsense and know you will get the sweet sweet geraskier feelings coming soon
> 
> also thank you for reading i adore you :')
> 
> (you can find me on tumblr @implodingthemirage) !


	2. ( the gilded songbird )

The next morning, as always, Geralt got up for work at an ungodly time, grabbed his breakfast and left something for Ciri, and hopped in his truck, driving the sleepy early-morning roads out to the stables right outside of town. It was the same routine as usual, but Geralt felt so jumpy – because it wasn’t. Because he was getting his haircut tonight. He knew he was being ridiculous, knew that he wasn’t _that_ obsessed with having to deal with new things – in fact, he really didn’t give much of a shit; he preferred his routine, but he rolled with the punches. Geralt knew it was just a haircut, and there was no reason to be so...rattled about this.

Which is why he talked to Roach about it.

After taking her out for her morning trot about the land, Geralt grabbed the brush, and began speaking softly to Roach. It wasn’t unusual to anyone in the stables at this point; they all just sort of understood Geralt and Roach had some weird connection after he’d saved her from an abandoned barn (thus why her name was Roach, and not the fancy names all the show horses got here, like Her Majesty’s Green Acres, or whatever). So, point was, they just let Geralt sort of chatter on to Roach, as long as he got the rest of his responsibilities done. And really, he was too good of a worker to let go – a real natural. 

“I don’t get it,” Geralt murmured, brushing Roach’s mane as he spoke. “It is just a haircut. Everyone gets them.” Roach shook her head, as if she was agreeing – certainly not because Geralt had hit a knot in her hair. “I’ve dealt with much worse.” Geralt sighed, quiet as he carefully worked the knot out of Roach’s mane. “This is nothing.” As he continued to brush Roach’s coat, Geralt tried to throw himself into the work, sensing Roach’s muscles release tension as he groomed her, sensing the trust this giant creature had for him. How she could let herself just _exist,_ vulnerable and unthreatened.

Okay, fine. Maybe he knew why he was so freaked out. 

Geralt’s revelation wasn’t really that much of a revelation, if he looked at it objectively – really, that he had also worked this out the night before, in the moment. But then he’d proceeded to bottle it up, because he certainly had no problems with even the concept of being vulnerable, even on an entirely superficial level, like letting someone touch his hair.  
Not at all.

So, naturally, he bottled that right up again, unwilling to get distracted from his work. Blissfully, Geralt fell back into his routine easily, the same process of exercising the horses and even dealing with the snobby equestrians who housed their horses here feeling incredibly comforting, just the most natural thing in the world. 

Unfortunately, that also meant 6:00 arrived a lot faster than he was expecting. Or, well, 5:30, technically. It was about a twenty minute drive from the stables back to The Gilded Songbird, and then, of course, ten minutes were dedicated to Geralt sitting in his truck, gathering up the courage to do one of the most normal goddamn things in the whole world. Finally, when his dashboard clock turned over to six exactly, Geralt practically peeled himself out of his seat, his legs miraculously carrying him inside of the building. 

Nothing could’ve prepared Geralt for what he saw when he walked inside. The salon was gorgeous – Geralt could recognize that, and he wouldn’t consider himself an interior decorator by any means. Or much of a decorator at all, really. The salon was all wood and gold, bathed in a soft light that made everything feel warm and inviting. At nearly every part of the room he looked at, Geralt spied flowers – and somehow, they weren’t garish. Perhaps a bit overdone, but not assaulting to the eyes. It was…nice in here. 

Before Geralt could decide if that was concerning or comforting, a voice snapped him out of his examination of his space. “Ah, hello? Geralt, I presume?” The voice from the phone, to be precise. Geralt flicked his gaze over to the desk, letting his eyes finally settle on the figure the voice belonged to. He was lean, well-groomed, clad in a combination of cuffed jeans and a floral-print button up that felt like it was made for the man. In other words, Geralt very, very, very regrettably found this man to be…ok, really hot. There wasn’t any other way to put it. 

It wasn’t like Geralt couldn’t – or didn’t – aesthetically appreciate people. He did all the time; plenty of attractive people would stop by the stables, and Geralt could admit he’d even classify some of them as hot. Just as hot as this man, really. 

But none of those people were about to _touch his goddamn head,_ and there lay the fucking problem. Not because Geralt was going to suddenly get aroused, or anything, but rather, because there was something even _worse_ about being so hyperaware of how weird the concept of letting someone touch him at all was combined with finding the person in question attractive.  
“Yes. That’s me.” Simply stated, as if Geralt hadn’t just had some kind of internal conniption in his own head. 

“Wonderful!” A smile spread across the other man’s face. “If you don’t recall from the call yesterday, I’m Jaskier, and I’ll be taking care of you today.” Nothing implied there at all. “So, you said haircut – what are we thinking? Oh, wait, before I ask you all of those questions –” Jaskier holds out a hand, beckoning Geralt forth. “Let me get you familiar with the surroundings first. You certainly didn’t sound like you knew what you were in for on the phone – not to sound presumptuous, or anything, I just like to make sure my clients are comfortable –” Jaskier prattled on as Geralt approached, pointedly not taking the other man’s still-outstretched hand. 

Jaskier looked down for a moment, his constant stream of words never stopping, but his voice perhaps faltering for just a second before he returned his hand to his side. “So, this is my salon – take a seat right here, and we’ll start with our consultation – is there anything I can get you? Water?” 

Geralt shook his head, swallowing thickly. He was mostly overwhelmed and fairly annoyed by the man’s constant chatter, yet, somewhere in that mix, something about the man felt – genuine. Charming. It was probably just because Geralt was lonely, like Ciri said. “Nope.”

“A man of many words! Lovely. Incredibly compatible with my approach to life.” The words lay somewhere between teasing and flirting, Jaskier’s eyes sparkling. “I’m going to touch your head now – I’ve gotta feel your hair to get an idea of what I’m looking at.” Jaskier’s hands hovered, waiting until Geralt gave him a stiff nod in response, then grabbing the other man’s hair gently, running the strands through his fingers. “Hmm. This is…rough. There’s no better way to put it,” he began, slowly working his fingers through some of the smaller knots, careful to pull away for a moment every time he felt Geralt tense up (which, he noted, was often.) “I’m not sure what your routine has been, or if you even have one, but it sure hasn’t been working. Your hair is…incredibly coarse and dry. To put it kindly. And…is white your natural hair color?” 

“Yes,” Geralt answered, shortly. They’d called it a mutation when he was born; Geralt saw it as a fact of life at this point. Humming thoughtfully as he let go of Geralt’s hair, stepping back, Jaskier replied “It’s really quite beautiful, the color – and it has so much potential. Do you know what you hope to do with it?” 

Geralt’s frame relaxed perhaps the slightest bit with Jaskier no longer touching his hair, relieved he didn’t have to deal with that sensation and Jaskier’s chatter right now. “No idea. My daughter told me to get it cut.” 

“Ah,” Jaskier responded, with a nod, looking at himself and Geralt as reflected in the mirror. “Any idea what the wife would like? Husband?” 

Geralt raised an eyebrow, but offered no reaction otherwise. “Don’t have one.” He could’ve just answered no, but…maybe, just maybe, Geralt’s loneliness was making this stupid, talkative man kind of charming, especially with the fact Jaskier actually asked to break the boundaries of physical touch, as if what he was doing wasn’t just his job.

“Mmm.” Jaskier mused, his tone perhaps going up a pitch for just a moment. “It would really be a shame to chop off all this gorgeous length; however, you do have awful split ends. I imagine you’re not quite ready to be adventurous with your hair, either, so…” a moment’s pause, far too quick for Geralt’s taste. “I’d recommend a good shampooing, maybe a treatment to bring some life back in your hair, and then we cut off those split ends. Just trimming it, not getting rid of anything major.” 

A long silence, imposed by Geralt, followed, as he considered this offer. Geralt had already accepted this was going to feel unnatural for him, but…for Ciri. He was doing this with Ciri. “Alright, then.”

Jaskier practically jumped with excitement, spinning Geralt’s chair. “Alright, so, sinks are over there – follow me,” he said, offering his hand for a split second and then quickly retracting it, hoping Geralt hadn’t noticed. It was partially habit; he usually guided his clients around the salon, being a very tactile person, but also, partially, Jaskier really wanted to hold Geralt’s hand. With every moment he spent with Geralt, Jaskier got gut-punched with how annoyingly his type Geralt was, blessing and cursing the world for sending him to Jaskier’s salon. Like, could Geralt use work on his sense of style and his personal care? Absolutely. But was he tall, fit, and brooding? Absolutely. And God, Jaskier loved that.

Geralt sat uneasily in the chair when they made their way over, looking up at Jaskier. “Lean back,” Jaskier said, a smile playing across his lips. “I’ll settle this towel under your neck, so I have access to your hair, but I don’t get the rest of you wet – ah, that’s what this is for, too,” he said, putting a fabric cape across the front of Geralt’s body to keep all the water (and eventually, hair) off, oblivious he’d just missed a great opportunity to hit on Geralt – something he was rarely oblivious of.

When Geralt leaned back, Jaskier took a moment to look at the other man, his eyes steady, his countenance suddenly serious. “I’m going to wash your hair now, okay? Are you going to be alright with that?” Jaskier wasn’t usually quite so careful with his customers; he usually warned them to some extent as to what would happen, but he could sense the discomfort coming off of Geralt in absolute waves. There was no fucking way he was going to touch Geralt’s hair without his consent, and it wasn’t just because he knew Geralt could probably snap him in half.

Geralt offered an affirmative noise, avoiding the instinct to tense up his whole body when Jaskier took hold of his hair, smoothing it out. “You really have such gorgeous hair, you know. You really should take care of it more,” Jaskier crooned, turning on the water. “Let me know if the temperature isn’t good,” he added, running the water over Geralt’s hair, watching the man’s face for any more signs of discomfort as he did so. 

As if by some miracle, getting Geralt’s hair wet went without a hitch – and Jaskier be damned if he didn’t think he could gradually see some of Geralt’s discomfort fade from his face. “It’s time to shampoo now, Geralt. Let me know if anything hurts,” he murmured, beginning the process. As Jaskier ran his hands through Geralt’s hair, gently working out knots at some points and scrubbing his scalp at others, the man began to sing, softly, idly, as if it was second nature. 

Geralt raised an eyebrow, ready to say something about the singing, and then – “Oh,” Geralt mumbled, satisfied, before realizing what he quite did. Apparently, something about the way Jaskier had been scrubbing his hair there just felt _so good,_ and somehow, not only had Geralt’s discomfort faded, but now, he was actually finding it to be a…rather pleasurable sensation. Comforting, actually, similar to the way the salon had felt when walking in. The exact opposite of what he expected.

Jaskier, the absolute bastard, _giggled,_ of all things. “Did you enjoy that?” he murmured, his tone perhaps more inquisitive than it should have been. Geralt offered nothing in response, so, naturally, Jaskier, ever-so-innocently, went back to his singing, running his hands through Geralt’s hair momentarily once more before returning to scrubbing at the point on Geralt’s scalp that had made him react before. While Geralt was able to hold back any sort of audible reaction this time, Jaskier watched as he saw the other man’s body relax, the tension flowing out and offering a peek into a soft expression he had a feeling no one really got to see.  
Well, Geralt certainly hadn’t been expecting this. This was…more than nice. Geralt was so incredibly vulnerable right now, he knew Jaskier could basically do anything to him in this moment, and he just felt _good._ So good he almost – just almost – protested when the shampoo and treatment ended, leaving him only with the sounds of Jaskier’s singing (which was…not awful) and the water coming from the faucet. 

“Alright, back over to the mirror now.” And this time, when Jaskier offered his hand to help Geralt out of the chair by the faucets, Geralt took it, and Jaskier felt his heart skip a beat – even if Geralt didn’t hold on, didn’t let Jaskier lead him over, it was a victory. “So, haircut time. Like I said, I’ll only take off the split ends; after that, tell me how you feel about it.” Geralt nodded, and Jaskier was off, his concentration on the act of cutting Geralt’s hair, the song he was idly singing coming out of his mouth as almost an afterthought, as if Jaskier always had to have something to listen to no matter what he was doing. As if he really enjoyed the sound of his own voice.

(This presumption was correct on both parts.)

Thankfully for Geralt’s sanity, the haircut was much less…enjoyable. That was the word to describe it. The touches felt more exact and clinical, less intimate and involved, but still, Geralt managed not to tense up, somehow relaxed in this moment despite Jaskier flitting about his face with a song on his lips and scissors in his hands. 

This dance of Jaskier and his scissors continued for a while, Geralt an observer to this art he didn’t quite understand. However, what he did understand were the results, when Jaskier turned Geralt around, holding a mirror to the back of Geralt’s head so he could see the cut all the way around. Despite the fact it was just a little bit taken off, and the biggest thing was his hair being washed, Geralt felt…different. Better. As if something profound had happened to him, but he didn’t know what.

“It’s…great,” Geralt responded, honestly. Jaskier absolutely lit up in response, holding back another urge to jump. “Thank you so much! Your hair was definitely intimidating on first glance, but like I said, like I suspected, it’s really quite gorgeous, and rather easy to work with.” Geralt got the not-so-subtle feeling Jaskier wasn’t talking about just his hair, but he shook that thought off, instead offering a “Thank you.”

Jaskier yet again smiled, motioning to the desk, not pushing his luck by offering his hand. “If you head over here, I’ll get you all set to go!” Geralt nodded, following him over, noting Jaskier was chattering on once again, not really registering the words, save for when Jaskier gave him the total for the haircut.

“Geralt?” 

Geralt shook his head, confused. Apparently he’d tuned out Jaskier too much. “Yes?”

“I said, did you want to schedule another appointment?”

Geralt hesitated, considering it. “I…don’t think so.”

Jaskier’s smile faltered, but he nodded his head. “In that case, give me just a sec to look over this receipt, and you’ll be on your way!” Geralt noted the other man scribbling something on the back of the receipt, thinking nothing of it – it was probably a verification thing, or something. 

“Have a wonderful night, Geralt. I hope I’ll see you again,” Jaskier held out the receipt, his smile still faltering as he looked at the white-haired man.

Geralt nodded his thanks, grabbing the receipt. When he exited the building, he went to throw the receipt out, until he noted – wait, what was that on the back of the receipt? Geralt got into his truck, unwilling to look at it until he was away from anyone’s gaze – from Jaskier’s gaze. The receipt read as follows:

“Geralt –  
I hope you felt the electricity, too.  
I’d love to see you again, and not as a client. Text me sometime?  
XO, Jaskier.” 

A heart followed Jaskier’s name, along with his phone number, and Geralt read over the message two or three times, trying to process it, vaguely aware of his heart thumping so hard he could feel it in his ears. Dumbly, he picked up the receipt, picked up the phone, looked at his car, idling in the parking lot, begging to be driven, over and over again, the endless cycle. 

After what felt like three thousand eternities, after Geralt realized he needed to make a decision before Jaskier finished closing and left his salon, he picked up his phone, typing in the number. 

“It’s Geralt.”  
“Wait. You probably figured that already.”

His emotionally stunted texts sent, Geralt peeled out of the parking lot, refusing to even look at his phone as he drove home. To even think of it.

This was profoundly strange, perhaps uncomfortable, but not in the way Geralt had expected this morning. This was…different. This was…exciting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so a) hi yes i'm feral enough you have another chapter already  
> b) like i said it's already sweet sweet geraskier  
> c) in this house we love and appreciate and stan a geralt who overthinks everything, has an internal monologue, and is perhaps not so sure of everything as it seems
> 
> thanks i love you all your comments and kudos and such bring me life and so do these two :*


	3. (  love, run )

Jaskier felt his heart thumping in his chest, out of his chest, pulsating through the entirety of his salon as he watched Geralt’s figure leaving, and it wasn’t just because Geralt had a damn fine ass.

Really, that was just a bonus.

Rather, it was because of what he’d written on that damned receipt. It wasn’t like it was unusual for Jaskier; he’d given his number out and gone on dates with far more clients than he’d like to admit. What could he say – The Gilded Songbird attracted gorgeous people. It was probably because it was run by such a gorgeous person, really. 

It wasn’t even that it was Geralt in particular; Jaskier got like this every single time he gave someone his number, all nerves and giggles and joy and energy wrapped up into one little Jaskier-sized package. The thrill never left him, the prospect of being able to share _happiness_ with someone on an intimate level, the prospect of being able to give just a little more love to the world. Although, Jaskier had to admit, the thrill was perhaps a little selfish, too – he did bask in attention. He knew this about himself, he thrived on this fact. Still, if it was both selfish and unselfish, that balanced itself out, right?

Jaskier flitted about the salon, preparing it for close, these thoughts and others pouring from his lips as he chattered to himself. He didn’t like the silence, especially when he was closing his salon – it made the place feel empty and lifeless. Words breathed life into everything they touched, and Jaskier wanted to ensure wherever he was stayed enveloped in his words, warm and comfortable and _alive,_ until the next time he saw it. Jaskier very well knew he was an overly sentimental bastard, and, hell, it wasn’t hurting anyone – it’s not like anyone was there but himself and his beloved salon to listen to the endless trains of thoughts pouring from his lips.

Maybe it was to keep himself warm and comfortable more than anything.

Refusing to dwell on that thought once he vocalized it, as Jaskier did every time he vocalized something he knew was the truth but refused to accept whenever he was alone, Jaskier grabbed a broom, the audio filling the space now. His singing permeated the air as he swept up Geralt’s hair, periodically pausing to use the broom handle as a microphone.

 _Bewitched, enchanted, under your spell –  
I feel it already; you’re giving me hell –_

Jaskier frowned, pausing his sweeping. “No, no. There’s so much wrong with those lyrics. Overdone, underworked, and far too damn _gloomy._ I know how much you gravitate towards those songs about longing, but c’mon, Jask. You’ve had a good day. Put some pep in it.”

And then he heard his phone buzz, and Jaskier sensed his day had gotten even better.

Letting the broom flop to the floor, he dashed over to his phone, seeing – yes. Texts from Geralt, made evident by the clunky sentences he’d sent proclaiming as such. Jaskier broke into a grin, cradling the phone in his hands and spinning around before looking back down at it again. “Ok, Jask. Time to text back.” Regardless of Jaskier’s (overdramatic) reaction, now he was getting into what was second nature for him.  


geralt! i’m thrilled you got my little note.  
i thought that nice tip you left me wasn’t just bc i gave you a great haircut. ;)  
(seriously, tho, that was such a nice tip. thanks so much.)

Text (well, texts,) sent, Jaskier set his phone down and went back to finishing closing the store, resisting the urge to check his phone every waking moment in hopes of a response, convinced that the world would reward him with the text he so desired as soon as he was done cleaning up.

Except he finished cleaning, and the world certainly did not reward him. Geralt hadn’t texted back yet. 

This was some kind of a cruel joke from the world, really. The first text so soon, and then this? No response? Perhaps Geralt was playing hard to get. Fine, Jaskier could deal with that. He could play that game too. After gathering up his things, Jaskier turned off the lights, plunging The Gilded Songbird into darkness.

He was sure he’d have a text back in the morning.  
\--  
But the next morning arrived, and Jaskier was sorely disappointed, frowning at his phone’s screen as if that’s what had caused his misfortune. If this was some elaborate game, Jaskier was absolutely befuddled – he’d dated plenty of people before, and none of them had ever done this. Who texted almost immediately at first and then didn’t respond? Geralt had left the salon at like 7:30, there was no fucking way that he had gone straight to bed, that he hadn’t seen the text.

Jaskier wasn’t entirely wrong with that presumption. Geralt had, in fact, seen the text, and then firmly decided he was absolutely not responding to it immediately. He wasn’t sure he could handle having more emotions, he was already at his limit for, like, the week.

So, he put it off. The next morning, three a.m. as always, Geralt was reminded of the messages once more, but he put it off yet again, his reasoning at least sound this time – there was no way Jaskier was awake, and he wasn’t going to risk waking the other man up with his text tone, because if Jaskier was anything like Geralt, he kept his ringer on full volume…nearly all the time.

(Jaskier was most certainly not like Geralt.)

Truthfully, the texts slipped his mind while he was at work – save for a brief conversation with Roach about his haircut and some general nods of acknowledgment at those who pointed out his hair, Geralt actually was able to forget about Jaskier entirely. The rhythm of work soothed him, pulled him in and allowed him to exist in that comfortable space of not thinking, just doing.

That was fixed that night.

Upon coming home, he called out to Ciri as per usual, preparing dinner and setting it on the table just in time for Ciri to come down the stairs. When she got to the table, Geralt noticed she paused, as if stunned. “Ciri?” His voice was gruff, perplexed, perhaps concerned.

“Dad. Oh my God.” Ciri grinned, wrapping her arms around her father. “Your hair looks so good. I was right – it’s such a difference. Like, yes, of course, you’re my dad and I love you no matter what, but this? This is great.” 

Geralt huffed out a laugh, squeezing Ciri in his arms in response. “Dinner time.”

Ciri pulled away, grinning up at her father. “It looks way cleaner – how was the salon? Did I make a good choice?”

Geralt paused, recalling the day before. “Shit.” He murmured, sitting back down and grabbing his phone off the table. “It was fine,” the simple response offered as Geralt opened his phone, carefully typing out his text to Jaskier.

I was at work.

That was like an apology, right? At the very least, a suitable explanation. Geralt looked up just in time to see the curiosity sparkling in Ciri’s eyes and the question on her lips – and then his phone chirped. Jaskier was _incredibly_ fast at responding, apparently.

oh, it’s fine! i get it, no worries. :)  
do you want to maybe go out sometime?  
usually i’d spend more time buttering you up, but i fear if i don’t ask you now, you might not respond for a few days. ;)

Geralt was prepared to not respond for a few days just based on the content of the texts. Dropping his phone back on the table, he looked at Ciri, acknowledging the eyes that had been burning into his soul since he had first picked up the device. 

“Dad, did you _actually meet someone?_ ” Ciri bounced on her heels, apparently too excited to sit down yet. “The only person I’ve ever seen you texting is me.” Geralt held his daughter’s gaze steadily, preparing his response.

“Yes.”

Short, sweet, to the point. Clearly a well-thought out Geralt response. At the very least, it was satisfying enough for Ciri, who was practically jumping out of her skin. “You gotta tell me about them, and none of your usual tiny answers. I want details. Dad, this is so exciting.”

When had his daughter become so concerned with his love life? 

With a sigh, Geralt looked down at his phone, then at Ciri, then back to his phone. “The salon owner.” Geralt began, feeling uncomfortably self-conscious – these past two days were more vulnerable than he’d ever felt in his goddamn life. “He’s rather chatty and annoying.” Geralt paused, turning over the phone in his hands. “But…kind of charming.”

A grin plastered itself on Ciri’s face, beyond satisfied with the response she’d gotten out of her father – for Geralt that was elaborate, really. “Is he who you’re texting? What’s his name?”  


A pause. “Yes. Jaskier.”

The instant response: “Have you texted him back yet?”

“No.”

Ciri’s jaw dropped, now sitting down in the chair – it was time to be serious, apparently. “Dad, you gotta text him back. It’s been long enough you won’t seem desperate, but if you go much longer, you’ll seem uninterested.”

So now Geralt was getting dating tips from his daughter…and he was listening to them. The man picked up his phone, reading over the messages a few times, processing their contents.

I’d like that.

He sent the message, looking up at Ciri. “Satisfied?”

She grinned in response, then speaking with a faux-sternness to her tone that meant she could only be imitating Geralt. “Eat your dinner.”

Geralt began to do so, and then his phone chirped again, sending Ciri’s eyebrows up.

“Wow, Dad, this guy must be _super_ into you.”

Geralt ignored her, reading the new messages he’d received.

really? aah how exciting! <3  
would you…like to come to my show, maybe?  
i play at the bar downtown on friday nights. it’s a really lowkey thing, we could get drinks afterwards, my set won’t be that long.  


Geralt’s eyebrows furrowed, considering his options. Music wasn’t really his thing, and while Jaskier’s voice wasn’t totally grating, going to a bar to hear the man sing wasn’t exactly at the top of Geralt’s list.

And then he sensed Ciri over his shoulder.

With an annoyed growl, Geralt turned to face his daughter. “Ciri. Really?” 

Ciri shrugged sheepishly, mischief in her eyes. “What can I say, dad? I know you’re not saying anything gross – at least not yet – so it’s safe to look at the texts. I want to make sure you go on this date. You’re going, right?”

Geralt hesitated, offering a silence as his response.

“Dad. You gotta. C’mon.”

Here Geralt was, about to do something again, justifying it as being for Ciri. Except, this time, he knew it was really for himself. “Alright.”

Sure. See you then.

He looked back at Ciri, growling “Satisfied?” Ciri offered a grin in response, returning to her seat with a pep in her step and resuming eating dinner.

Somewhere inside Geralt, he could feel the same excitement beginning to bubble up.

He was _so fucked._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my muse continues to be absolutely feral. it has been a day and here's another chapter  
> enjoy overenthusiastic jaskier and emotionally stunted geralt ft. his daughter becoming his hype man  
> in this house we love and stan ciri as endless support for her dad
> 
> as always, your kudos/comments/bookmarks bring me great joy <3


	4. ( such endless blue )

The time flew by, going from the Monday Geralt had texted Jaskier to Thursday night in the blink of an eye. Jaskier had attempted some idle flirty texts here or there; Geralt had ignored responding to them, although he had to admit most of them had made him make a bemused noise, at the very least. 

That was, until Jaskier sent him a text as he sat down at the table, just about to call Ciri down to dinner. Why was this always the time things happened?

hey, uh, if i’m coming on too strong, lmk.  
it’s totally okay if you’re not interested.

“Fuck.” Geralt stared down at the screen, reading the lines over and over again. He had to respond; if he didn’t, he’d be sitting here forever, and then he wouldn’t call Ciri down for dinner, and then she’d start asking what was going on, and – this was complicated.

Don’t worry, I am.

That felt like a good enough response – Geralt was satisfied. As he called Ciri down to dinner, his phone chimed once more, alerting him Jaskier had texted him once more.

wonderful! i’ll see you tomorrow <3

While Jaskier’s text may have seemed incredibly composed, unbeknownst to Geralt, Jaskier lost his _fucking mind_ when he saw the response. He didn’t know what he had been expecting – other than, hopefully, Geralt to say he was still interested, but this – this knocked the breath out of Jaskier. He knew it was probably just a result of Geralt’s short, to the point texting style, but there was something about that sentence that sent shivers down his spine. Jaskier didn’t need anything more, didn’t need an apology – just the strong reassurance in that sentence felt _incredibly sexy._ Maybe Jaskier was also blowing it out of proportion because he was prone to wildly dramatic mood swings from “I’m desperately in love” to a brief, weak descent into “I’m desperately insecure” and quickly to “I’m desperately abandoned,” but he was, at least in this moment, pretty sure that he was completely justified in his response.

If only Geralt knew his lack of communication skills made him even more desirable.

Right now, Geralt wasn’t doing great on the knowing much of anything track – after texting back Jaskier (mistake one), as Ciri arrived at the dinner table, she had a question for him. “Hey, dad, you remember I’m doing a late night practice with the rest of orchestra tomorrow night, right? You’ll have to pick me up.” 

And there was mistake two.

Geralt wasn’t going to lie to Ciri; this was kind of an important thing here and Geralt wasn’t going to put his daughter’s safety at risk over seeing Jaskier. “I…no.”

“Well, it won’t be a problem; it’s not like you have anything going on tomorrow night,” Ciri teased, a bright grin plastered on her face.

“I actually do,” Geralt mumbled, nearly inaudibly.

“Wait – dad, is your date with Jaskier tomorrow?” Ciri’s grin grew bigger, bouncing on her heels as she refused to sit down at the table.

“I was going to see him tomorrow. Yes.” Geralt afforded himself a longer answer to correct Ciri’s question in her own mind – this wasn’t a date. Jaskier was obviously attracted to him, and Geralt was (unfortunately) pretty sure he was attracted to Jaskier, but there’s no way this was a date. If anything, it was Jaskier’s excuse to self-promo his music. Right?

“Hmm…” Ciri’s grin fell, sitting down and contemplating the problem at hand. “Wait, I have an idea. I could go to Yennefer’s house, if you asked her to pick me up.”

Geralt took a long pause, looking at the space past Ciri for a moment. Ciri wasn’t wrong, and there wasn’t anything _wrong_ with her going to see Yennefer. When Ciri was adopted, Yennefer and Geralt had been dating – they’d ended on fine terms; he held no animosity towards his ex-girlfriend and genuinely found her motherly bond with Ciri incredibly heartwarming.

“Maybe.”

Ciri frowned, looking at Geralt. “Your only other option is cancel your date, and I’m not letting you do that. You haven’t been on a date since I was ten, and that’s before you and Yennefer broke up. Your last date was with Yen, dad. It’s been too long.”

Geralt held his tongue, torn between questioning Ciri being invested she was in this or correcting her that this absolutely, positively was not a date. 

“I’ll call her after dinner.” 

\--

After dinner, Geralt headed outside, staring up at the sky as he dialed Yennefer’s number. Being outside always helped him clear his mind; something about breathing in the fresh air and being in an open space, even if he was stuck in the middle of an area leaning towards suburbia. The outdoors just had a magic about it. 

“Geralt? It’s been awhile. What’s up?” Yennefer, picking up the phone and getting straight to the point. Geralt admired that about her.

“I’ve been busy,” and it wasn’t really a lie on Geralt’s part, not really. Between Ciri’s school activities and work and whatever Jaskier was, he hadn’t spoken to Yennefer in a few weeks. While for some, that would have been too short of a time to be out of contact with their ex, for Geralt and Yennefer, it was kind of strange. At the very least, Yen liked to have updates on how Ciri was doing (ones that weren’t from Ciri herself), and how Geralt was doing, and Geralt liked knowing in return. Plus, sometimes, just sometimes, Geralt could let himself get some goddamn _help_ from someone. He and Yennefer had built up years of trust, and somehow, through a miracle (mostly involving Geralt getting his head out of his ass), he could communicate with her like a human being. He had someone he could actually discuss things with, who he could help parse their problems in return. 

Geralt was incredibly grateful for Yennefer.

“Busy. Hmm.” There were several questions hidden behind Yennefer’s inquisitive tone, but she didn’t push anymore – besides, she had a feeling what this was about.

“And part of that is…” Geralt sighed heavily. “Could I ask a favor of you?” The words stung, practically made Geralt wince; he hated being in debt to anyone and hated them being in debt to him in return. 

“Depends. Is it picking up Ciri tomorrow night and taking her off your hands for a bit?” 

“How’d you know?” Geralt’s forehead wrinkled in confusion, perplexed. 

“Ciri told me, Geralt. Some of us can communicate without a fifteen minute break.” 

Geralt cleared his throat, awkwardly. “What did she tell you?”

“Apparently, you have a _date._ ” Geralt could practically picture the playful smirk Yen had across her face right now.

“I’m meeting someone. Yes.” Again, not a date. They hadn’t said it was a date, so it wasn’t a date.

A laugh sounded from Yennefer, who saw right through him. “Yes, I can pick up Ciri – I’ll keep her all weekend, just in case.” 

“Yen, nothing’s going to happen.” A beat. “And if something was going to happen, I’m sure he has a house, too.” Now why the fuck had Geralt said that?

Yennefer chuckled in response, her tone teasing. “Sounds like you’re hoping something’ll happen.” Geralt offered nothing in return, fixating his eyes on the stars. Geralt always knew Ciri had gotten her cheeky attitude from Yennefer, but sometimes, he was just reminded of how alike the two were in that way. He huffed a breath of no particular meaning into the phone as he thought, which Yennefer (correctly) took to be a response.

“No worries, Geralt. I’ve got it.” And then, right before Geralt was about to say goodbye, Yennefer spoke again. “About repaying that favor that I’m doing you, though – I want you to repay me by telling me about how your date went.”

Geralt removed the phone from his ear and stared dumbly at his phone, eventually returning it to his ear to respond. “What?” Was this some kind of weird power play thing? Who the fuck wanted to know about their ex’s future relationships?

“I want to hear about how your date went, Geralt.” Yen’s tone was warm, like honeyed apple cider. “Just because we didn’t work out doesn’t mean I don’t want you to work out with someone – and I know you feel the same about me. It’s just taken you way longer than I to get back into the swing of dating. Like, a really long time.”

Date. Everyone kept saying that word, and now it was date combined with the fact his ex-girlfriend _and_ his daughter were invested in his life. Geralt didn’t know how to handle it, so he resorted to what he knew best: “Fine.” He’d resolve the problem of actually telling her after he saw Jaskier for what was decidedly not a date. Before Yennefer could speak again, Geralt quickly said “I should go. Things to do. Thanks again, Yennefer.” With his heart pounding in his chest and his head swirling with confusion, Geralt hung up the phone. 

\--

Friday before Geralt’s meeting with Jaskier came and went, the day a blur – Geralt couldn’t even find the words to talk to Roach about whatever the hell he was feeling and whatever the hell was happening. Arriving home after work was a production in itself; instinctively, Geralt called out to Ciri, only to remember – right. At Yen’s. Well, at rehearsal, and then Yen’s. It had been a long time since Geralt had experienced silence with the exception of the noises from himself and the environment surrounding him, and it was really quite nice. 

Geralt was pretty sure he was going to desperately miss that silence in a few hours.

His preparation for going out that night was simple, after all, this was _just a meeting._ Although, Geralt had to admit, he perhaps spent a couple extra minutes in the shower scrubbing his hair – but that was definitely because Jaskier had just done his hair, and Geralt didn’t want to be scolded for not taking care of it already. Clad in a leather jacket, leather boots, and his ever-fashionable jeans and t-shirt combination, Geralt took a deep breath, and climbed into his truck. It was time to go to the bar.

\--

Jaskier was nervous – and it wasn’t because he was performing tonight. Performing was second nature for him; he rarely got nervous anymore. Rather, it was all because he hadn’t seen Geralt yet, and he wasn’t totally convinced Geralt was going to show up, even if Jaskier had previously that tiny conniption over the one text he had gotten from Geralt that week. The man was fucking mystifying – Jaskier couldn’t pinpoint if he was clueless, playing hard to get, or somewhere in between.

It did make things more interesting, though.

Jaskier peeked out from the (incredibly tiny) backstage, knowing he would be going onstage in a moment. As if the world heard his silent screams emanating from his nervousness, he caught a glimpse of Geralt, who he quickly saw disappear into the back of the bar. Satisfied, he retreated back behind the stage. In retrospect, Jaskier really wasn’t surprised with Geralt’s late arrival and folding himself into the back of the bar; Geralt felt overwhelmingly like a person who’d prefer to stay in the background and out of as much trouble as he could. 

Jaskier, on the other hand, was the exact opposite. If Geralt had thought he was loud and show-offish when he’d met him in the salon, he hadn’t seen _anything_ yet. When Jaskier was in the salon, he liked to keep his outfits at least vaguely reasonable, and by that, it basically meant “nothing that could get in the way of his work, and nothing that couldn’t handle getting a little dye on it.” Outside of work? All bets were off. Tonight’s outfit was a particularly outstanding choice, in Jaskier’s not-so-humble opinion; the leather pants and high-heeled boots he donned weren’t particularly out of the ordinary for him, nor his generous bit of accessorizing with elaborate, wing-shaped ear cuffs (although, these were, fake – he couldn’t dedicate himself to the idea of permanently piercing his ears). However, there was one absolutely _show-stopping_ bit of his outfit, a piece he was incredibly proud of – his shirt. It was a sheer, white piece, with a v-neck, a cinched waist, and an incredible train in the back. The sleeves were flowy, and more fabric underneath his waist in the front continued this flowing theme through. Really, Jaskier looked absolutely ethereal. 

But there was no more time to check himself out in the dingy backstage mirror. He picked up his guitar, walking on stage as the poor excuse for an announcer spoke, his voice just barely carrying over the din of the bar. “And next, we have Redania’s own Julian Alfred Pankratz, or, as he’s requested to be referred to as, Jaskier!” Jaskier winced at the mention of his name (and his full name, at that), but kept a sunny smile on his face, too-aware of the fact half of the interested eyes on him had only acknowledged him when it was mentioned he was a Pankratz. Damn it.

But Jaskier couldn’t get wrapped up in that right now, wrapped up in realizing that this bar probably only agreed to let him play because of his name. He was _talented,_ goddammit. And he’d show them. Sweeping his eyes across the bar until he was just able to make eye contact with Geralt (a feat only achievable by Geralt’s height), Jaskier gave him a little nod, and spoke. “Good evening, all! I’m so pleased to have you here on this wonderful Friday night, thrilled to… _pleasure_ you all with my music.” Innuendos weren’t anything new to Jaskier’s little spiels, nor pointed innuendos, but this one was at Geralt – someone he’d actually met before, someone who he hadn’t just arbitrarily picked out of the room to make bedroom eyes at and most certainly bed later.

Geralt, however, was annoyingly stone-faced, and Jaskier couldn’t tell if his flirtation had landed, or, really, had even been registered. Fine, then. He’d turn to the songs, maybe Geralt would listen to _those_ , would pick up on something more evident. 

White-haired beast, tangled in vines –  
Your stride confident, but I can see the signs;  
Cautious, careful, concealed within,  
But oh, darling, you make me want to sin.

I, a songbird, flighty and free;  
And yet, you call to me --  
Bewitched, enchanted, under your spell –  
I feel it already; that fire I know all too well.

The song continued, Jaskier rather pleased with himself; especially with the fact that he’d managed to repurpose those lines that had come to him when he’d been cleaning up the salon that first night. With the exchange he’d made in the last line, it bordered a space between sexy and cheesy – just like Jaskier himself. As the songs proceeded and he drew further away from his ode to Geralt, Jaskier sang his heart out on that stage. At some point, Geralt faded to only a thought in the back of Jaskier’s mind, the joy of performing taking him over. At the end, Jaskier looked over the crowd, remembering his _date_ , and he sent his farewells to the crowd in the most classic way he could, pointing his flirtations at Geralt once more: “I hope you all have a lovely night! I know I will.” His tone ended in a purr, paired with a wink and a kiss blown in Geralt’s direction.

His performance was received as it always was; faces who were more interested in his lineage than his songs, people who offered to buy him a drink if Jaskier would tell them what it was like being a Pankratz when he left the stage. Pushing past the crowd, Jaskier made his way back to Geralt, more frazzled than flattered due to knowing where the interest was coming from. 

“Hello, darling. Can I get you a drink? I promise I’ll be right back.” 

Cocking an eyebrow at Jaskier’s use of the word darling, Geralt responded “A beer.”

Of course, Jaskier should’ve guessed. Geralt looked like a beer drinker. With a wide smile, he said “I’ll return soon!” Geralt sent him off with a nod, watching as the crowd seemed to dissipate as they realized they wouldn’t get a chance to speak to Jaskier. Did they really think his music was that good? Geralt really hadn’t been amazed. In fact, it had grown…kind of irritating as it continued. Jaskier’s songs all felt the same, full of longing and heartbreak regardless of whether they were solemn or upbeat. He wouldn’t tell Jaskier that…yet. Geralt didn’t have to be a bastard the first time he saw someone. 

Jaskier’s first song, though. Geralt was intrigued by that, but he couldn’t quite put a finger on why.

Before he could have any more time to figure it out, Jaskier returned, a beer in one hand, and what appeared to be a cosmopolitan in the other. As Jaskier slid into the seat opposite of Geralt, Geralt raised an eyebrow, to which Jaskier immediately responded to defensively. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those men who think Cosmos are a girly drink, Geralt. I’ll leave you here right now. Besides, I like my Cosmos with extra vodka. But even if I didn’t, it still wouldn’t be a girly drink. Drinks don’t have genders.” 

Geralt nearly spit out the beer he was drinking during Jaskier’s mini-lecture, and it wasn’t because of what the other man had said. Or, rather, it was, but not in the way Jaskier thought – what Geralt was responding to was the fact that Yen’s preferred drink was the exact same thing – a cosmopolitan; at least an extra shot of vodka, if not more. “I don’t think that.” Geralt paused, and then realized he should change the conversation before Jaskier questioned him more. “You seem to have many fans.” Make it about Jaskier. That was safe.

Jaskier looked at Geralt as if he had three heads. “You’re joking, right?” Geralt’s silence gave him his answer, and Jaskier took a long sip of his drink, absolutely baffled. “They’re not interested in my music. They’re interested in my family.” Geralt still had no response, save for a slight wrinkle of confusion spreading across his forehead. “The Pankratz? Geralt, you’re shitting me, there’s no way you aren’t aware.” 

Geralt paused, took a moment to think, and miraculously, Jaskier didn’t blabber on while he thought. “Oxenfurt?” 

“Yes, in part – wait. How do you know about Oxenfurt and _not_ know about my family?” Jaskier looked remarkably perplexed, as the two often went hand in hand.

A shrug. “I guess we’re close enough to Redania that the recruiters got a hold of me. Found out about my PhD in chemical engineering. Wanted to hire me. I said no. Didn’t look into it more.” Geralt stated this all simply, as if it was like talking about the weather.

Jaskier sputtered out a series of sounds without any particular meaning, even more confused. This was a lot of information to take in – Geralt had a fucking PhD in chemical engineering, he’d been offered a position at Oxenfurt without applying for it, and he had said no. On top of all of that, Geralt had just said the most words Jaskier had heard since meeting him. “I…” Ok, Jas, compose yourself. “My family’s a huge donor to Oxenfurt. We have a whole hall named after my great-grandfather; we’re kind of…minor celebrities, I guess. You’d think I thrive in the attention, and I do _love_ attention, but I kind of hate it being attention connected solely to being one of the Pankratz kids.”

“Jaskier.” Geralt said, suddenly having a revelation.

“What?” Jaskier was even more fucking confused. Geralt didn’t care about his family (which was nice), but he was back to the one-word responses.

“That’s why you go by Jaskier.” Gruff, brief, followed by a swig of his beer.

Jaskier found himself turning a little red despite his best attempt not to. “Yes. It means Dandelion. Or Buttercup.” He squinted with confusion. “I can never seem to find a consistent definition either way, but it doesn’t matter. They’re both gorgeous. I rather like the idea of it meaning Dandelion, though – they always reappear no matter what, carrying the little – what are they, petals? Whatever they are, dandelions are the thing people wish on, that they use in an attempt to find their true love. Even if people find them to be a deceptively pretty, annoying little weed, there are always people that find the beauty in them. I find that to be terribly romantic.” He very pointedly smiled at Geralt, who returned his smile with a perplexed… _something._ Jaskier didn’t know how to explain the emotion on Geralt’s face. It wasn’t negative, wasn’t positive, it was just…there.

Unsure how he should respond, Jaskier motioned to both of their glasses, which had been quickly drained over the course of this painfully awkward conversation. “I’ll go get us more drinks – don’t worry about it, it’s on me.” He flitted off, leaving Geralt for a moment to just think. And think Geralt did – he didn’t know what the fuck was going on. Jaskier was just here, spilling his fucking life story in a bar, and he was winking at Geralt, and flirting with him (which he had most certainly noticed; he’d just not responded to). Was this…did Jaskier think this was…did _he_ think this was…

“A date?” Geralt murmured under his breath, just as Jaskier returned.

“Hmm? What was that?” Jaskier put down their drinks, eyes sparkling.

“Nothing,” Geralt responded, avoiding Jaskier’s eyes. 

Jaskier’s face shifted, and he reached out to place a hand on Geralt’s for comfort – Geralt quickly jerked back, the touch searing his hand, the awareness of how _long_ it had been since he’d received any sort of physical intimacy, romantic or platonic.

“Fuck,” Jaskier whispered, pulling away. “You aren’t…This isn’t a date.”

_Oh._ Geralt bristled, staring at Jaskier hopelessly. “I didn’t know it was,” he said, his voice quieter than it would have liked, nearly betraying Geralt’s cool façade. 

“Fuck,” Jaskier repeated, taking a long swig of his cosmopolitan once more. “Well, we certainly attended this with incredibly different intentions – and to think, you said you were interested in me. Apparently I misread the hell out of that,” his voice cracked, his words unsteady.

“Jaskier – ” Geralt hesitated, reaching out to perform the same motion Jaskier had just attempted after a moment. 

“No, no, Geralt. It’s fine. I have plenty of other people to choose from.” Jaskier’s words came out acrid, his laugh hollow. 

“Jaskier.” Geralt repeated, fixing his gaze on the man.

“Geralt.” Jaskier replied, his tone deflated.

“I…” Well, admitting this was going to _fucking suck._ “I don’t know what I’m doing.” Geralt’s heart sank to his feet, his pride torn to bits, absolutely mangled – basically his worst nightmare.

“Obviously,” Jaskier retorted, moving to leave.

“Jaskier –” Geralt reached out, catching Jaskier’s wrist before he could leave, and then quickly dropping it. “I don’t want you to leave.” Fucking destroying the pride, once again.

Jaskier inhaled sharply, sitting down. “You are the most confusing man I have ever met, Geralt. What the hell do you mean? You want to continue our…what is this to you…a business meeting?”

Geralt sighed, long and low. Talking, expressing complex emotions, being touched – he sucked at all these things. “I don’t know what this is to me.” Another pause. “But. I think I…like having you around.” It came out like more of a question than anything, and he watched as Jaskier settled into his seat further, his gaze steady on Geralt.

Geralt thought he would’ve been grateful for the silence, for Jaskier not bombarding him with words, but – no. This didn’t feel right. Was Jaskier’s chatter mind-numbing? Yes. Was it kind of cute? Also yes. _Fuck._

Jaskier swallowed, thickly. “I could help you figure that out real easily.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow, shaking his head. “Jaskier, I’m not going to fuck you tonight.” Tonight. As if there was a future possibility.

“No shit, Geralt. I didn’t think not knowing what the fuck you were feeling was a gateway drug to having my dick in your ass. Or vice versa. Either’s fine. Not the point. Really not the point.” Jaskier shook his head, as if to shake out the thoughts that had just manifested there. “But I could kiss you.” It had been a long time since Jaskier had offered to kiss someone – not that he was off kissing people without their consent; usually it was just a thing that _happened._ Him kissing them, them kissing him, it all fell together naturally.

Not with Geralt.

Geralt froze, looking at Jaskier, at Jaskier’s lips, at the blue of Jaskier’s eyes, and _Oh, fuck._ “You could,” he responded, his tone evidently saying what he couldn’t make himself actually say – do it. 

Jaskier’s lips quirked into a smile, and he leaned over the table, pressing one hand to Geralt’s (incredibly sharp) jawline and leaning in for a kiss. 

For one brief, beautiful moment, Geralt was completely taken by the sensation – the plushness of Jaskier’s lips, the awareness that, yes, overwhelmingly yes, he was definitely into Jaskier. But – no. Geralt pulled away, and he saw Jaskier’s face hovering in front of his, his hand lamely dropping from Geralt’s face, his eyes open and lacking the light they had before. 

Before Jaskier could say anything, before Geralt could _feel_ anything, he stood, offering a brief sentence to Jaskier. “It’s not you.”

And then he was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we have everything! angst! emotional ineptitude! romantic songs! jaskier getting sappy about his name!
> 
> jaskier's past was written...because i wanted it that way. i took a tiny bit of liberty with canon forgive me
> 
> jaskier's outfit is based on harry styles' outfit in the music video for falling and really that's the most important part
> 
> as always your kudos/comments/bookmarks fuel my life <3


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